Chapter 9
Chapter
Nine
And to think I was nervous about the Season in Breton.
I crash back down into my chair, and Desmond kneels before me. “You have nothing to fear, Charlotte. You’re the Favourite.”
My head is swimming, and my heart waltzes against my ribs. If grace and sophistication are what’s needed to win this game, then I am dead upon arrival.
Sir Cathal gently pulls me from the chair. “We need to get going. Aowen’s likely plotting our dismemberment for not delivering Charlotte directly to her.”
Desmond sucks on a tooth. “Bit early to subject her to my sister, no?”
“It’s nearly eleven.”
“Precisely my point,” Desmond mutters, biting into a filled pastry. Red jam oozes out, decadent and unnerving.
“You should start preparing for the ceremony, too,” Sir Cathal warns.
Desmond swipes a spot of jam from the corner of his lip and sucks it off his thumb defiantly. His knight expels a long-suffering sigh before ushering me through a pair of tall glass doors into the palace.
He leads me through hallways lined with arched windows, outside which I spy that flying beast again.
It’s closer this time, close enough that I can make out a feathered head and wings attached to a body of golden fur with a long tail and clawed paws.
It’s so startling that I pause and Sir Cathal is forced to turn back and fetch me.
“Andraste,” he says, as if the word makes any sense. “Desmond’s gryffalcon.” Which makes even less sense.
He explains no further as he guides me from the window and up a wide staircase, then down a high-ceilinged corridor at the end of which a woman waits with her back toward us.
She turns at our approach, and her beauty lands like a physical blow. She’s a striking study in contrasts: long, night-dark hair offsets a milk-pale complexion, and large, pool-blue eyes blink above a sly, ruby smile.
If Desmond resembles a storybook prince, then his sister Aowen is both the tale’s plucky princess and the vengeful, centuries-old queen who’d rather feast on the hero’s heart.
“Wait here a moment.” Sir Cathal saunters over to her as I melt back against the cool stone wall.
Their voices are pitched low enough that I cannot hear what they’re saying. Sir Cathal lifts Aowen’s hand and presses a gentle kiss to the back. She softens at his attention.
Is there history between them? Or is Aowen merely reacting how any woman would in the presence of the handsome, towering knight?
And why do I care about any of it when I’ve just learned my life is at stake?
While I pretend not to eavesdrop, Sir Cathal slips into the room behind Aowen and a periwinkle blur zooms out.
A small creature thumps to the carpet, then patters toward me. She’s the size of a raven with fathomless black eyes, ears rounded like a human’s, and pale lavender skin and hair. Two translucent, segmented wings—similar to a fly’s—sprout from her back.
She crouches, sniffs my bare legs, then smiles through a mouth filled with concentric rows of pointed teeth. “Food?”
“Not food,” Aowen calls over, her voice robust but dry. Bored. “Friend.”
The tiny creature glues her nose to my ankle. “Food and friend.”
“No, Vesper,” Aowen commands. “Just friend.”
Vesper looks up at me with baleful eyes, her too-wide mouth turning down at the corners. “Just friend.” Her fluttering wings produce a clicking far too insectile to be anything other than petrifying. “Just friend,” she whispers rebelliously before licking my calf.
She flits up to Aowen’s shoulder, and her tongue darts around her lips as she stares at me. Probably wondering which of my limbs to sample first.
God, she’s adorable. Reminds me a bit of Esmeralda. I might coo over her if I wasn’t still in shock.
Aowen raises a hand, and I grip it as I execute a shallow curtsy. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Duchess Macán.”
“Duchess.” She spurts a laugh. “If only.”
Embarrassment sears my cheeks, and Vesper whimpers.
“She’s mostly harmless.” Aowen slides her gaze toward her pet?
Companion? Familiar? “Pixies have voracious appetites. They think every hot-blooded creature they encounter is food. Even their own kind. But she’s more entertaining than most of the bores in this House.
And a master tailor to boot. Tiny fingers make for intricate threadwork.
Her creations are worth a little sacrifice of flesh every now and then. ”
“Whose flesh?” I ask as Vesper grins wickedly.
Sir Cathal strides back into the hallway.
“Is it up to your exacting safety standards?” Aowen asks in a teasing lilt.
“It’ll do, Wen,” he says, low and intimate. He bends down to press a kiss upon her cheek and some strange, hot thing coils in my chest.
Aowen turns to me. “Well, praise Danu. You are quite the beauty.” She steps back, her eyes dragging down my filthy, sweat-stiffened chemise. “We can do better than that, though. What do you think, Vesper?”
The little pixie’s wings chirrup. “Food. Pretty food.”
“She will be pretty food,” Aowen says, her eyes never leaving me.
“Pretty bait, at least. The amount of skin you’re showing is appropriate, but it would work better if it looked a bit more purposeful.
” She places a hand at her shoulder, and Vesper hops onto her fingers.
“Go to my quarters and fetch some gowns in”—she pauses to study me again—“soft peach or salmon or pale blue. You’ve a spring coloring about you, I’d say. What a stir you will cause.”
Something inscrutable tightens Sir Cathal’s features as he stares at me. For perhaps a beat too long. With a barely perceptible shake of his head, he returns his attention to Aowen. “Don’t go overboard.”
“Off with you,” Aowen dismisses him then plucks up my hand. “Fret not, Sir Cathal, she will look the perfect quarry when we’re done with her. Innocent with a hint of juicy allure. Those beasts áine and Cernunnos won’t be able to resist her tomorrow.”
She pulls me into my quarters to begin my transformation.
I want to tell her not to bother.
I am already plotting my escape.